


All That Remains

by LotusJoy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adorable, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Best Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, No Johnlock, No Smut, Other, Plot, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Sad, friends - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:46:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusJoy/pseuds/LotusJoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's life after Sherlock's death and the reunion which is painfully, bittersweet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Remains

**Author's Note:**

> For all my subscribers or those who check back regularly on my stuff, I'm sorry I haven't been updating my other fic! I have been crazy busy with school! Once I get settled into break I will definitely start updating...  
> This is a little treat for those that DON'T ship Johnlock (other than in purely platonic ways)  
> Please comment, and criticize or praise!!!
> 
> Thank you again!
> 
> If anyone has any prompts for a short fic message me privately and I will see to it you get your story (obviously depending on the prompt given...)
> 
> I love you all and please, ENJOY!

It would be a lie to say life was normal for Doctor John H. Watson after the infamous suicide of the world’s only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.  
Life was not normal.  
Like with most people John experienced the ‘stages of grief’ after all, some would say, Sherlock Holmes was the first true friend John had made upon return from Afghanistan.  
That is not true. Sherlock Holmes was so much more. 

Denial:  
John sits quietly in his chair which is placed, as it always is, askew to Sherlock’s chair. He has the Union Jack pillow held tight to his chest. He isn’t sure entirely WHY it is there but, he doesn’t question it. He sits staring off at nothing. It’s early, about 7am judging on the position of the rays of sunlight filtering through the window. John wonders how he came to be where he is, then picks up on the quiet noises coming from the kitchen, “Sherlock? That you? Make me a cuppa while you are in there…”, silence, then a soft sob come from the kitchen. John stands slowly, “You alright in there Sherlock?”. Another soft sob, the hitching of breath come from by the stove. John turns as Mrs. Hudson pulls herself together and says, “Want some tea dear?” John gives her a questioning look, nods, and then says quietly, hardly more than a whisper, “Where is Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson, clearly taken aback by his question begins to cry in earnest. He walks over and pulls her against his chest, confused as to why she is crying, “Mrs. Hudson, everything alright?” Mrs. Hudson shakes her head slowly her face still pressed into John’s shoulder. John furrows his brow, “What is wrong that has you so upset?” She looks up, her eyes wide, “John, Sherlock is dead…” John heart stutters to a stop momentarily and he feels as though his stomach is at his feet. Memories begin to rush back to him and his hand tremors slightly.  
Blustery day, Sherlock on the rooftop, the phone call, Sherlock’s breath catching in his throat repeatedly, ‘is he crying?’, begging him to change his mind, silence, falling, falling so slowly, impact, blood, so much blood, his eyes, staring at me, ice, ocean, sky, darkness, I can’t breathe.. I.. Can’t. Breathe….  
John voice trembles as he tried hard to keep himself together, “H-how.. Long?”  
Mrs. Hudson grimaces slightly, “A week dear, he’s been gone a week…” John nods then shakily makes his way back to his chair, “Must h-have been blocking it out… don’t even remember how I got here this morning… It’s not possible.. I just.. We just.. He was here yesterday making tea…”  
Mrs. Hudson continues preparing his tea in silence. She walks over, places the tea on the table beside him and murmurs quietly, “you’ve been like this all week… every morning… it’s like you clear your mind of it while you sleep…”  
John nods again and continues to mumble his mantra, “He’s not dead, he can’t be.. not possible…”  
Mrs. Hudson walks back to the kitchen, “anything to eat today, dear?”  
…. Silence…  
“John, dear, any food today…?”  
… silence…  
“John?”  
Mrs. Hudson walks into the sitting room to find John sitting facing Sherlock’s seat, dazed. His face is streaked with tears. She softly places her hand on his shoulder and breaks his trance.  
John realizes he has been crying, reliving again, and furiously wipes at his face, “Sorry, did you say something Mrs. Hudson?”  
Mrs. Hudson pats his back, “was asking if you wanted any breakfast today…”  
John shakes his head and slumps a little in the chair.  
Mrs. Hudson walks back toward the kitchen to prepare her own tea, “Let me know if you will be wanting anything to eat… just this once though… not your housekeeper…”  
John’s mouth raises at the corner, the only smile he can fathom and sighs, then resumes staring at the wall.  
Mrs. Hudson stirs her tea silently, sits at the tabletop in the kitchen and rests her head in her hands and glances over to John. She silently wishes he would ask for something to eat. She knows well she won’t be going anywhere and if he wants tea she is more than willing to fetch it for him without question. Poor boy can’t even admit he’s broken.

Anger:  
Mrs. Hudson can hear the smashing from her flat and makes her way quickly up the stairs. John is nowhere to be seen but she can hear the grunts of exertion and the shattering of glass from the kitchen. She makes her way slowly around the corner to see John lifting beakers and smashing the deliberately on the floor, “John, stop, you are making a mess. You are going to hurt yourself, dear! JOHN, STOP!” John stops suddenly his hand raised with a beaker grasped firmly in it. John’s eyes are wide, she can see the anger there, and feels it bubbling around them. In a choked voice he says, “Why… Should... I…? Bloody idiot left all this for ME to clean up. Couldn’t have been LESS BLOODY SELFISH, EY SHERLOCK!?” John screams this last bit at the sky, then smashes the beaker in his hand and falls to his knees on the broken glass breathing heavily. Mrs. Hudson steps forward quickly and lifts him to his feet, “John, are you alright!?” He flexes his knee and winces, “No… in my knee, glass, damnit… get my kit please…” John limps to his chair and rolls up his pants legs to reveal little rivulets of blood running down his legs. Mrs. Hudson returns quickly and gasps a bit at the sight, “Need help dear?” John shakes his head, “I’ve got it…” Mrs. Hudson wanders to the kitchen to put on the kettle.  
John begins to slowly pluck out shards of glass, occasionally wincing in pain, scolding himself for his stupidity. He makes quick work of the cuts and cleans up just as Mrs. Hudson returns with their tea. Mrs. Hudson pulls up the chair at John’s desk and sits, placing her tea on the table, “John, why were you smashing his lab equipment?” John trembled slightly, anger rushing back, “BECAUSE I BLOODY WELL PLEASE!, damnit… sorry…” John lowers his eyes, clenching and unclenching his hand. Mrs. Hudson sips her tea, un-phased by the sudden outburst. They sit silently together until the dam bursts. John looks over to the kitchen at the smashed equipment and his throat tightens. He jumps up and grabs a broom and dust pan and begins sweeping the broken fragments into the pan, then he runs to his room and grabs some empty boxes leftover from his move 2 years prior. He stops momentarily, drops the boxes to the floor and begins scooping the fragments into the boxes.  
Mrs. Hudson continues to watch in silence.  
John sweeps over the floor again to get any small pieces which he is BOUND to step on into the pan. The floor is finally clean and he stands straight and glances around. The tabletop is now practically bear except for the assorted slides, a microscope and a mug. To most the mug would mean nothing. John looks at the mug and can’t breathe. He thought it was lost or broken before... it happened… he couldn’t find it… now that all the beakers, test tubes, and flasks are gone… it is no longer obscured. John braces himself against the counter, his knuckles white. Sherlock was never one for sentimentality. However, strangely enough he did have a favorite mug. He claimed it was because it held the perfect amount of tea, or because it always kept the tea warm long enough so if he neglected it, the tea wasn’t QUITE cold. John knows it’s more than that. Mrs. Hudson bought Sherlock that mug long before he had moved in. Sherlock had owned it for years since he first met Mrs. Hudson. It was full of sentimental value. John sat heavily in the seat across from the mug, “Why, Sherlock? Why to me, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade? Everyone who loved you…? Did you not see… important…” John throat closing down cut him off. He leaned his head into his hands and cried silently for a short while.  
He was so caught up he didn’t notice Mrs. Hudson stand, and walk into the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson lifted the mug in her hand and couldn’t help but smile, a stray tear escaped the corner of her eye and she made her way to the sink, washed the mug, opened the cabinet and carefully, placed it on the shelf and pulled out a package of biscuits. She made her way back to John, “biscuit, dear?” John let out a shaky breath and grabbed a few biscuits. Mrs. Hudson placed them in front of John, encouraging him to eat more. Then she slid her arm around his shoulders, pulled him against her side, and leaned down and kissed the crown of his head which causes his shoulders to shake, with a trembling voice she quietly says, “It’s going to be alright, dear… It really will…” She pulls John into a hug and forces him to finish another biscuit.

Bargaining:  
John sat in his chair, like he did every morning, lazing about, unsure what to do with his day. John pulled out his phone and began to flip through the messages. This was a new habit he had acquired. Sherlock had been gone about 2 months and he began reading old messages he couldn’t bear to delete. John was filled with overwhelming sadness; so much so, he could scarcely breathe. He read one particular message from Sherlock, one of the last  
John, I need you at the flat. SH  
John smiled and then hit reply. This began an unfortunate and addictive habit  
Sherlock, I miss you. JW  
Sherlock, please come back. JW  
Damnit, Stop this, NOW JW  
Sherlock. JW  
I know you aren’t going to reply, please just don’t be dead, please. JW  
I can’t do this anymore. I have nothing left. JW  
Why did you leave me, I can’t do this. You are the only true friend I had. JW  
John never received a reply but kept sending messages. Eventually Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade caught on and cut him off, cold-turkey, with the hopes it would help him move on. It didn’t help.

Depression:  
John lies in bed, it’s early about 5am, the sun is just barely peeking through the curtains which have been drawn shut for longer than he can remember. He never slept more than an hour the night before. His sleep quickly interrupted by dreams of Sherlock’s death and thoughts, dark thoughts tumbling through his head. He can’t feel. Everything is either numb or crushing darkness. He lies in his bed for hours at a time. He has turned the bed into a nest, pillows and blankets piled around him. His head is pressed into his pillow and another held tightly against his torso. His eyes are red and sunken, bruise-like circles encircle them. He only occasionally eats when Mrs. Hudson absolutely insists or when he feels ill from low blood sugar. He just lies in bed, his breath slow, no moving; Just stillness and his thoughts. He cannot get out of bed. His chest feels like it’s full of quick drying cement which is slowly squeezing the life from him. His head feels like it’s full of lead. Slowly weight begins to drop off. His hips become more prominent. His collar bones poke out more each day. It’s been 6 months and he cannot move on. His best friend is dead; gone forever. John is alone.

Acceptance:  
One morning, about 8 months after the suicide of his friend, John decides enough is enough.  
He is tired of moping.  
He crawls out of bed (very slowly as his body hasn’t REALLY been mobile in 2 months) and pulls on his robe. He stretches and wanders to the bathroom, strips, turns on the shower, and hops under the piping hot steam. It scalds his skin but he smiles because he can feel it, John can feel again. John’s heart hurts when he suddenly thinks of why he has been numb, he gets a flash of Sherlock and he gasps at the sudden twinge in his chest but, it doesn’t overcome him.  
He repeats this routine for days, and weeks, until finally he can bring himself to go outside for a short walk, or to visit Greg or Molly. John is recovering, finally, moving on with life as his friend would have wanted.  
John will never feel whole but now, he begins to feel not quite so broken.

Reunions:  
John is sat in his chair flipping slowly through a newspaper.  
John has more or less resumed a ‘normal’ life. He works at the surgery picking up shifts when they need him. John has dated a few girls but never can really commit to one. He spends most of his time with Greg, Molly, or Mrs. Hudson. On nights, when he gets low, Mrs. Hudson like the good land-lady she is drags him down to her flat and feeds him a warm dinner.  
On this particular morning John occasionally munches a biscuit, sips his hot coffee (black of course), and skims the newspaper for interesting news.  
He hears the doorbell ring, arches an eyebrow, and resumes reading. If it is for him, of course Mrs. Hudson will fetch him. John hears some muffled noise from downstairs and then Mrs. Hudson’s door closes. Curious, John folds his paper, places it on the table and makes his way to the top of the stairs, then calls down, “Mrs. Hudson? Are you quite alright?”  
John waits, and waits, her flat door finally opens and he hears light footsteps making their way down the short hall and around the corner to the base of the stairs. John’s brain cannot process what his eyes see standing before him. Sherlock stands at the base of the steps, seemingly no worse for wear. John’s breath gets caught in his throat, “It can’t… Not possible…” John shakes his head, still unable to understand what is happening. John slowly backs his way into the flat pulling the door closed and latching it. He unsteadily makes his way to his chair, flops down into it harder than he intended, and holds his head in his hands just, thinking.  
He hears the jingle of keys, a turning lock, then more soft footsteps until he can see the toes of Sherlock’s shoes beneath him as Sherlock sits in his chair. John shouldn’t look up but he does, and the sight of his best friend sitting in his chair, where he always sat, overcomes him completely.  
John’s eyes well up and spill hot tears onto his cheeks as he sits crying silently, just watching his friend, who is apparently alive, study him.  
Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his seat, emotion makes him uneasy, but seeing his friend this upset makes him feel downright ill, “John…” he says in his deep baritone, “Please… don’t cry… I don’t know how to help… and I’m not good at this, emotions and fragility…”  
Sherlock is cut off by John’s fist making contact with his cheek, “I am NOT bloody fragile! You killed yourself, I saw you, HIT THE GROUND. You died and I couldn’t fix it. I am upset! I grieved you! Don’t you dare call me FRAGILE!”  
Sherlock’s hand cups his aching cheek as he rolls his eyes, and shakes his head. Sherlock begins to speak but is met with a glare from John, he stops to think over his words, which of course doesn’t help, “You didn’t actually SEE me hit the ground John, that would have been MUCH more traumatizing…”  
John’s mouth gapes at this and he has to struggle to not hit Sherlock a second time, “I-… I will not be belittled by you, Sherlock, NOT for having emotions.”  
Sherlock, still nursing his now bruising cheek meets John’s eyes. Composes his thoughts then begins, “I owe you an explanation…”  
John nods, wiping at his face, “You are damn right about that…”  
\---  
Sherlock sits for a bit, sulking nursing his cheek and milking the trauma for all it’s worth. John eventually succumbs to the doctor within him and heads to the kitchen to make a cold pack for Sherlock. As John does this he is startled by Sherlock’s sudden presence in the kitchen. He stands quietly for a bit and just watches as Sherlock fumbles around the cabinets, he then manages to squeak out, “Can I help you?”.  
Sherlock freezes mid-reach and pivots on his heel, glowering down at John, “Tea…. I was looking for tea..”  
John cannot stop the smile that overcomes his face. John is so taken aback that he can barely vocalize the location of the tea. John takes a deep breath and points the cabinet beside the one John was searching, “Tea is in there…”  
John turns quickly to resume making the cold pack his breaths coming quicker. For one brief moment turning to see Sherlock standing in the same room startled made him feel as though he was looking at a ghost.  
Sherlock puts on the kettle and finds himself staring at the trembling form that is his flat mate, once best friend-turned stranger, and wondering where exactly they stand. The kettle begins to whistle and Sherlock starts and realizes John has long since vacated the room. Sherlock makes two cups of tea and brings them to the sitting room. He places one cup on the table next to his chair then places the other in John’s still shaking hands.  
John nods, “thanks…” he whispers as Sherlock sits in his seat, ankles crossed, elbows leaned against his thighs, fingers steepled beneath his chin. John sips his tea and smiles slightly, made just how he likes. John places the tea next to him on the table next to Sherlock’s and rubs his palms across his pant legs nervously. He clenches and unclenches his fist a few times, his brow furrowed, “ready whenever you are, mate…”  
Sherlock leans back and tries to keep up the calm façade which is beginning to crumble unbeknownst to John. Sherlock has scarcely felt nervous his entire life now, he is downright terrified. For the first time in his life Sherlock may permanently loose a friend; the only true one he has ever had. Sherlock clears his throat and tells the entire story in its most basic form, “The whole thing, the jump, my funeral, it was a ruse. Its purpose was to make people believe I was dead, namely Moriarty’s men. When I was on the rooftop I had no intentions on death or even faking my death, I thought I had found a loophole, everything changed when Moriarty pulled out his gun and killed himself. If I didn’t jump his men would have killed people, more specifically, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you. I knew other way to protect you then to do what I did. I don’t regret it and I’m not sorry. I’m only sorry you reacted the way you did…”  
Before Sherlock could even complete the sentence John was up and out of the room. He quickly slammed and locked his door before Sherlock could even think of what he had said to upset John.  
Sherlock suddenly realized what he had said, his eyes widened, “damnit, stupid… so stupid…” He leaped up from his seat and raced up the stairs to John’s room. When Sherlock arrived outside John’s door he first tried the handle, locked of course. Sherlock swallowed, took a breath and knocked, “John…? Open the door please… John? I’m sorry I didn’t…”  
Before he could even finish speaking the door flew up and John’s red, tear-streaked face was glaring at him, “Don’t you DARE say you didn’t MEAN what you just said. OF COURSE YOU BLOODY MEANT IT.. YOU MEAN EVERY BLOODY STUPID THING THAT COMES FLYING OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!” John turned and walked to his bed and lie down facing the wall.  
Sherlock walked in cautiously and was shocked at the overwhelming sadness which overcame him when entered. Sherlock shuffled a bit in place then walked over to the small figure facing away from him on the bed.  
John felt the bed dip next to him and a hand reach over and touch his shoulder.  
Sherlock started to speak his voice rougher and quieter than before, “John, what I meant to say… was… I-… I missed you and…” (DAMNIT WHY IS THIS SO DIFFICULT TO DO!?!) “I-…. I am.. So… VERY… s-… sorry… “  
As Sherlock finished speaking John rolled over, sat up, and has his arms strung around Sherlock’s neck in one fluid motion. John’s face was pressed into his friends chest and all was fine until Sherlock tentatively reciprocated the embrace.  
Sherlock could feel the John come apart then. Although normally he would have run in the opposite direction he could feel the weight of loss and loneliness falling off his friends shoulders. He could hear the muffled sobs from John and he could feel the wetness of tears beginning to seep through his shirt. The poignant moment made his heart clench. A lump formed in the stoic man’s throat and his eyes filled with tears. For once in his life he felt loved, not rejected or vilified. He could physically feel the love from his friend filling him. He choked on his words, “John, thank you for… everything.. I’m not going anywhere… shhh… it’s okay just… let go…” Sherlock’s own tears came freely for the first time since he was a child. Instead of stifling them he let them fall. They were healing and mending the broken and making them whole again.


End file.
